


Bait

by CarvcrEdlund



Category: Supernatural
Genre: And Sammy bein' a bitch, Dean just wants to be a badass hunter like him, Gen, Hunting, It's kinda sad tbh, John's A+ Parenting, John's simultaneously a good dad and a terrible dad, Teen Dean Winchester, Young Dean, but there's ice cream at the end, casefic, yayyyyy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 13:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11358045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarvcrEdlund/pseuds/CarvcrEdlund
Summary: Inspired bythispost on tumblr.Dean's almost 17, and his dad is finally letting him take the reigns on a hunt....and then everything goes to shit.





	Bait

“What do you mean _it got away?!”_ John Winchester is not a man known for his temperate nature, So Dean really should have seen this coming.

“I… I shot it, but—”

“ _But?”_ Dean made a mistake, he knew that much immediately. “I don’t want excuses from you, Dean, I—” John drew a hand down his face, turning around suddenly in an attempt to regain his composure. He keeps his back to his son, taking a few seconds before he continues, in a calmer tone this time. “Just—Tell me what happened, son.”

Dean shifts on his feet, not liking the calm disappointment in his father’s tone. He’d rather have the angry shouting, any day. “Whatever I shot, it was invisible.” And it got him in the side, which is the only reason he had a good enough idea of its location to hit it at all. John hasn’t noticed the injury yet, as far as Dean can tell, and he’d like to keep it that way. This hunt isn’t over, and he just knows that if John sees he’s hurt, he’ll be benched. “And I don’t think silver did anything but piss it off, dad. It ran away after I hit it, and it sounded pretty angry. I… don’t think it’s a werewolf.”

At Dean’s description, John’s frustration abates significantly, and he taps his chin in thought. From where he’d been waiting in the underbrush nearby, it had looked like Dean started shooting at nothing, gave away their position, and scared off the werewolf they were hunting, since he heard a yelp, and heavy footsteps running away.

Dean, for his part, practically held his breath, silently worrying about this case. It seemed pretty simple, a cut-and-dry Werewolf killing. The heart was missing from the victim (as were many other body parts), the claw marks were clearly canine… One of the witnesses said she heard dog-like noises at night, and felt like she was being watched. Seemed simple enough, right?

In fact, the only thing that even seemed slightly out of place was that none of them actually saw it. But even that didn’t seen too weird. They said it was dark, because the morons were playing with a Ouija board, and they were just using candles. The candles went out, they heard distinctly canine growling, their friend started screaming, the girl got a shot off at it, and when they managed to get the lights back on, whatever they shot was gone, and the victim was all mangled and missing pieces of himself.

Dean even had high hopes that, since it was so simple, his Dad would finally let him go solo on this one. But suddenly, it’s not so simple. Werewolves don’t just… turn invisible. Maybe there’s a witch involved?

John still seems to be deep in thought, pacing back and forth now. Dean’s side is really starting to ache, now that the adrenaline has begun to drain from him, and he instinctively presses his hand to the wound, hoping to stem the blood flow and stifle some of the pain. It doesn’t help much, but it at least gives him something other than his Dad’s disappointment to focus on.

It distracts him thoroughly enough that he doesn’t notice his dad has turned back around until he speaks. “You’re hurt. Did it bite you?” And the disappointment is gone now, replaced with worry, and _damnit,_ Dean’s 16 already, he doesn’t need his dad to kiss his boo-boos.

“Not a bite,” he’s quick to reassure his dad. “It’s not bad. Just a few scratches,” Dean lies quickly, dropping his now-bloody hand down to his side. “It probably just needs to be cleaned out. I’ll take a shower when we get back.” Lies. He’s gonna need stitches for the deep claw marks the thing left just above his hip. He’ll do it himself though, because if Dad sees it, he’ll pull him off the hunt. And that, that’s the _last_ thing Dean wants. That sonofabitch mutt made him bleed, so he’s damn sure going to make _it_ bleed back.

Unfortunately, John Winchester has a bullshit detector that even Sam’s inhuman persuasiveness hasn’t managed to fool yet, and he’s not about to let Dean fool him. “Dean,” His tone is full of warning, and his son knows better than to argue with him.

A little dejectedly, Dean turns to the side, pushing back his jacket and lifting up the shirt underneath to show John the gouges in his side. He cringes as he peels the shirt away from his torn skin, as the blood causing it to stick to the wound is peeled away too. “It’s nothing. It doesn’t even really hurt, dad. I can still hunt.”

John sighs after inspecting the wound for a few seconds, and takes a knee so he can do something about Dean’s injury. “This _isn’t_ nothing, Dean.” He flips open a pocketknife, and starts to cut away Dean’s shirt around the bloody area, so no more cloth will get stuck to it. “You need to tell me when you’re hurt, boy. I can’t let you hunt on your own until I can trust you to be smart enough to know when you need help. You understand me?” As he talks, John tears off part of his own shirt, which is cleaner than Dean’s, folds it over, and then lays it over the parallel gashes.

“Yes sir,” Dean responds with reluctance, gritting his teeth as his dad puts pressure to the wound. “… I just didn’t want you to worry.”

“Dean,” John puts his son’s hand over the cloth, then straightens up and pushes his son’s hair back from his forehead. “You’re my boy, I’m never gonna stop worrying about you. Now let’s get you home so we can put some stitches in that, and get back to hunting.”

At this, Dean perks up, both surprised and cautiously excited. “Wait, you’re not benching me?”

“’Course not, kiddo,” The older man chuckles, patting Dean on the back as he heads back towards to impala. “Like you said, it’s just a few scratches. Anyways, what would I do without my huntin’ partner?”

Dean knows that’s bull; his dad can hunt just fine without him, but you won’t see him complaining. He squares his shoulders, losing the fight to hide his grin. “I won’t let you down, dad!”

 

* * *

 

 

With Dean now patched up, Sammy safe at the motel working on homework, a good night’s sleep for them both, and their silver bullets traded for salt shotgun rounds and canisters of holy water (John had a hunch about what they were fighting, and after a phone call to Father Jim and Uncle Bobby, decided to go with his gut and prepare to fight a hellhound), John and Dean set out again, heading back to where they’d fought the monster before.

Dean, for his part, was more than excited. He’s never ganked a hellhound before, and he was thrilled that his dad was letting him in on this hunt.

And not just letting him on it, either. His dad was finally letting him lead the hunt. He must _really_ trust him. Finally, maybe he’ll even get to run the next hunt without any help!

It’s about time, too. His 17th birthday is in only two months, and Dean’s more than ready to watch R-rated movies (at least, _legally_ ) and kill monsters on his own.

But for now, he’s just in charge of picking up the hellhound’s trail.

John is elsewhere. He told Dean he’s going to check out the cabin the Hellhound attacked before and see if anyone else staying there besides the first victim made a demon deal. Particularly the victim that said she felt like she was being watched. And even if they haven’t, he’s going to salt the cabin and tell the college kids vacationing there to stay put until they’ve killed the hellhound. He’s going to meet up with Dean afterwards, and they’ll follow the trail to its end together.

The theory they’ve got going is that Dean hurt the mutt, so it’s holed up somewhere licking its wounds before it goes back to finish off the girl. They should be able to find it without too much trouble, and finish it off.

There’s a chill in the air now; a cold front came in overnight. They’re pretty far South though, so the trees aren’t barren like they would be up North this time of year. In fact, there are still leaves falling to the ground, and some of the heartier plants are still a vibrant green. Despite the chill, it’s still sunny outside. Dean went with light winter gear to deal with the cold, just pulling on a black beanie and one of his dad’s old army fatigue jackets. It’s thin and light enough that he could take it off and carry it if Texas’ notoriously bipolar weather flips on him, or even just leave it on, if that’s the case. Yet it’s warm and sturdy enough that his limbs aren’t going to go numb on him if it gets even colder than it is now. Dean has a lot of strong opinions about the government and the Military, but he’ll admit, they’ve got sensible taste in uniforms.

And maybe Hellhounds are colour-blind like regular dogs, and the camo pattern will actually help him blend in, who knows?

He doesn’t know a whole lot about Hell-hounds, and he didn’t have time to run to a library and see if the Internet had any tips for him, but he listened in on his dad and Bobby’s conversation, so he has something of an idea of what they’re dealing with. The ‘plan’ they’ve got for now is to shoot it full of rock salt and douse it in holy water to keep it distracted while they try to lock it away in Hell again with the exorcism Father Jim taught them.

From the size of the claw marks it left in Dean’s side, it’s a pretty big bitch. Which, in Dean’s book, just means it’ll be harder to miss.

He comes back across the small clearing where he met it the first time, and starts looking around for a trail. Paw prints, the smell of sulphur, a blood, anything. He thinks he sees an indentation in the ground, and kneels down to brush the leaves away so he can get a better look.

A breeze blows by him, and he pulls his jacket a little tighter around him to fight off the cold.

_Crack._

Dean freezes in place, senses suddenly on high alert. He doesn’t turn around right away, not wanting to give away the knowledge that he noticed to whatever’s behind him. He holds his breath, listening hard for any indication that he didn’t just get spooked by some woodland creature.

The affirmation comes almost immediately, as the breeze blows from behind him again, this time carrying the scent of sulphur and a hushed growling.

And then, that’s when Dean connects the dots.

The likelihood that two of those students both made a deal ten years ago is very slim. The girl got a shot off at the hellhound, and it went after her. He got a shot off at it, and...

Oh, he’s fucked.

He whips around, flipping the safety off his shotgun as he hears the beast come barrelling towards him. Before he can even get a shot off, however, there’s a boom from his right, followed immediately by a loud ‘yelp’, and more angry growling.

Dean takes his shot at it, and shoots a confused look to where the other shot came from… to where his father is, situated up in one of the trees, already reloading his own shotgun.

And for a second, Dean feels really fucking stupid. His dad must’ve connected the dots yesterday. He must’ve realised the hellhound would go for Dean, especially if he acted like an idiot and wandered out in the open with no backup.

John must’ve known what this thing was from the moment Dean described what got him yesterday, and _that’s_ the only reason Dean’s still on this hunt. His dad doesn’t trust him, or think he’s a good hunter… Dean is _bait_.

The young hunter swallows his disappointment, and his sudden dose of shame, and reloads his shotgun, running away from the pissed-off Hellhound. No time to feel bad for himself, no. His dad made the smart choice, and now it’s Dean’s job to adapt and prove he _is_ ready to hunt. He _can_ handle the pressure, and he _will_ ice this monster.

His sawed-off is reloaded and ready to fire in record time, and he can practically feel the hellhound’s heavy, galloping steps as it chases after him.

He half-turns, taking aim where he sees the leaves being thrown from the ground as the hound bounds after him. He shoots again, smiling at the satisfyingly pained bark he receives, and the way it stops in its tracks, warier of him now that it’s been hit with salt three times.

Dean takes his chance and changes directions, running back to where his Dad is still in the tree. He’s got to keep the hound in that area, so his dad can recite the exorcism and send the bitch back to hell. He’s already started it, and Dean can catch some of the words over the pounding of blood in his ears as he gets closer.

_“Regna terrae, cantate Deo,_

_psallite Domino_

_qui fertis super caelum”_

Another shot rings out from above him, and he takes that to mean the hellhound has recovered and is chasing him again. He thinks he’s gotten enough distance between them, so he jumps for the highest branch he can reach in another tree, praying to whatever higher power is listening that hellhounds can’t climb trees.

_“caeli ad Orientem_

_Ecce dabit voci Suae_

_vocem virtutis,_

_tribuite virtutem Deo!”_

He makes it up two branches before the hellhound makes it to him, and the thing must be _huge_ , because it doesn’t even need to climb to reach him. It just jumps for his leg, digging a clawed paw into the back of his thigh, and clamping its teeth around his shin.

It’s all Dean can do not to let go of the branch he’s hanging from, getting one of his elbows hooked around it and clinging for dear life.

_“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus_

_omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion”_

He can’t hold back a scream as the heavy beast hangs from his leg, but the weight isn’t there for very long. Another shot comes from John’s tree, at about the same time Dean gathers his wits enough to open up his canteen with the hand not holding him up, and douse the hell-mutt in the face with holy water.

_“infernalis adversarii, omnis legio,_

_omnis congregatio et secta diabolica!”_

As soon as the hellhound lets go and falls to the ground with a earth-shuddering impact, Dean wastes no time scrambling up higher into the tree, putting a good ten feet of distance between himself and the ground. His leg hurts like hell, but he’s alive, and relatively safe for now, so he’s not complaining.

“Ergo, draco canis inferorum.

et omnis legio diabolica adjuramus te.

cessa decipere humanas creaturas,

eisque aeternae Perditionis venenum propinare.”

He can almost see where the hellhound is now, from the holes they’ve been blasting into its sides, causing dark, nearly black blood to show on its otherwise invisible hide.

_“Vade, Satana, inventor et magister_

_omnis fallaciae, hostis humanae salutis._

_Humiliare sub potenti manu dei,”_

His dad’s chanting is getting louder now, and when he finally looks over at his father again, he can see the man wiping sweat from his brow, obviously stressed and focused on the hellhound. His exorcism is having a visible effect, too. The hellhound is barking wildly, and is now running at John’s tree, like it thinks it can knock it over.

_“contremisce et effuge, invocato a_

_nobis sancto et terribili nomine,_

_quem inferi tremunt.”_

And it just might be able to, given the amount of damage it’s doing to the trunk. John doesn’t falter in reciting the exorcism however, just holding tighter to his branch and calmly reloading and firing his shotgun.

Dean recovers enough from his leg injury to join his dad, keeping the hellhound from ramming into his dad’s tree with any kind of consistency with shot after shot unloaded into its hide.

_“Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine._

_Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias_

_libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos.”_

The horrible barking stops suddenly as the dog gives the tree as heavy shove with its massive forepaws, and the whole tree _lurches_ , and then tilts back like a drinking bird desk toy. John’s voice jumps up an octave, and he drops his gun in favour of gripping the tree for all he’s worth.

_“Ut inimicos sanctae Ecclesiae humiliare digneris,_

_te rogamus, audi nos!_ ”

It doesn’t fall completely over; stopped by two trees behind it, but the dog didn’t need it to fall all the way. It’s tilted enough now that the hellhound can start walking along it, snapping branches and making the tree shudder with each footstep.

John clambers to his feet, still shouting the words of the exorcism as he prepares to throw holy water on the beast.

_“Ut inimicos sanctae Ecclesiae_

_te rogamus, audi nos!”_

It’s gaining on his dad too quickly, and Dean doesn’t have a clear shot at it. Dean also doesn’t know the exorcism, which makes him the less valuable hunter here.

So he drops down from branch to branch until he hits the ground, waving his arms like a madman and trying to ignore the pain lacing up his leg. “Hey ugly! Over here!”

_“Terribilis Deus de sanctuario suo._

_Deus Israhel ipse truderit virtutem”_

The dog abandons his father, snarling ferociously as it catches sight of its original target.

Dean realises he doesn’t know how much of the exorcism is left, and turns tail, attempting to run for it with a leg that shoots pain through his nervous system with each impact. He doesn’t make it far before the hellhound is on top of him, knocking him to the ground and digging claws into his back.

_“et fortitudinem plebi Suae!_

_Benedictus Deus! Gloria Patri!”_

Dean screams again, but the pain is short-lived, as his father finishes the exorcism just in time. The hound howls, and becomes suddenly visible, for just the briefest second, before bursting into smoke and being pulled down to Hell. It passes right through Dean, and for a moment, he can feel all its hate, and suffering, and anger, and its base instinct to _kill, main, consume_ without conscience.

And it scares him, how beneath it all, there’s a sick feeling of joy at his pain, his hurt, and Dean wishes, just for half a second, that he could feel that free, that unlimited by morals, conscience, feelings…

And then the moment passes, and all his pain hits him again like a sack of bricks.

He groans, laying limply on the ground, lacking the motivation or energy to get up.

He doesn’t have to anyways, because before he can even summon the energy to even _think_ about pulling himself up, John is at his side, pulling off his jacket so he can wrap it around Dean’s leg. “Dean, say something, can you move?”

Dean manages to get out a groan that _almost_ sounds like “I’m okay.” He tries to move his unharmed shoulder, managing to get it underneath his head so he can push himself up, and then he repeats what he said, clearer this time.

“No, you’re not. What did I say about lying?”

“… sorry.” Dean resituates his head, turning his face away from his dad before groaning again in disgust. “I _hate_ Hellhounds.”

There’s a beat of silence, where John tightens the jacket around his leg to cut off blood flow. “… What you did was very brave, Dean.”

“y’mean _stupid._ ” Dean counters, mumbling into his forearm.

John shakes his head, expression full of guilt and regret as he runs a hand through Dean’s damp hair. He lost his beanie at some point during the fight. “I meant brave, Dean. But also, _reckless_.”

Dean tries to shrug, and instantly regrets it as he’s rudely reminded of the gashes in his shoulder blade. “Yeah but… It worked, didn’t it?” He’s slowly recovering his coordination and alertness after that experience. It wasn’t so much the injuries that were affecting him, as the essence of the hellhound itself that was screwing up all his mental functions.

His father sighs, eyeing the gashes in his back and trying to work out how to deal with them. They’re deep, but not very long. And without a chest wrap, he can’t properly put pressure on them. “… That it did, Dean. You did good.” He pats his son gently on his unharmed shoulder, then settles back on his heels, squatting next to his son. “You think you can walk back to the car if I help?”

Dean takes a deep breath, knowing it’s not gonna be fun, but honestly just wanting to get back to the motel where he can shower and _sleep_. “I can try,” he nods, pushing himself up with his better arm, and getting his untouched leg underneath himself.

John helps him up the rest of the way, and with his good arm around his dad’s shoulders, and his dad’s arm around his waist, he manages to get enough support to make walking possible.

There isn’t much said between them as they head back to the Impala, but as it comes into sight, Dean groans in frustration. “Damnit, I lost Sam’s beanie. He’s gonna throw a fit…”

His father shakes his head as he realises the worrying noise was over something so trivial. “I’ll get him a new one, and if he complains anyways, he’s not getting ice cream with you.”

That seems to lift Dean’s spirits, and despite being almost 17, the prospect of ice cream gets him just as excited as it did when he was 7. “Can I get Rocky Road?”

“You can get whatever flavour you want, kiddo.”

At that, Dean fist-pumps, now not even bothering to hide his enthusiasm. “ _Awesome_! We should fight hellhounds more often!”

Sometimes John forgets that Dean is still a kid, with how mature and responsible he acts, and the reminder brings a warm smile to his face. He fights the urge to roll his eyes at the boy’s attitude flip. “Didn’t you say you hate them?”

“Yeah, so,” Dean turns to grin at his dad, “I’ve gotta just get rid of them _all_ , I guess.”

Again, John has to shake his head at his son’s antics. “You can hunt all the hellhounds you want when you’ve got your _own_ hunting partner. I’ll pass, hotshot. Now, in the back you go. We’ve got a long drive back to town.”

Dean’s grin doesn’t fade as he lays down in the back seat, glad to be off his feet again. “Yes, sir.”


End file.
